by Deckard

He likes her on top of him.

That way it feels like he isn't forcing her.

Afterward she molds herself gently to his side, stale with sweat and old panic stirs cold in his gut against the natural brush of her arm across his scrubby chest in the semidark. Subtle like the cool, tender tease of an anaconda's forked tongue before the rest of her affectionate coils loop in to smother and crush.

He should say something but everything is the wrong thing.

He should touch her.

He apologizes instead
never sure exactly for what,

but she's already asleep.

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